


While My Guitar Gently Weeps

by anglopxile



Category: George Harrison - Fandom, John Lennon - Fandom, Paul McCartney - Fandom, The Beatles, ringo starr - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, LSD, M/M, References to the Beatles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 13:43:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13319373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anglopxile/pseuds/anglopxile
Summary: Everything used to be wonderful for the Beatles.Then came the Summer of ‘67.—This fanfiction explores the relationship between John Lennon and Paul McCartney following the death of Brian Epstein, told through third-person POVs of both boys and the other Beatles. This is my first McLennon fanfiction so I ask that you please take it with a grain of salt and be aware that I stink at uploading. My current plan is to go up until the point when John left The Beatles in 1969, but we’ll see how far I get!—PROMPT: There isn’t necessarily a prompt, but I recently did an analysis of “WMGGW” for my History of Rock and Roll class about how George most likely wrote it about how Paul + John (and The Beatles in general) were falling out of love and felt inspired to write a fic based on it! Enjoy!





	While My Guitar Gently Weeps

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who has taken the time to read this / share it / comment / give kudos! I love you all very much. I was wondering if you guys would like me to continue with this? I've got a few ideas for events leading up to the break-up in '69, but I don't know if you guys want to read them! If you'd like me to continue this story, please comment down below or message me and let me know! I really appreciate it. 
> 
> Again, thank you so much for all of your support. Peace and love! ~ Macca

Two cups of tea sat on a wooden bedside table. A pair of glasses lay askew beside them, the round lenses symbolic of one man and one man only - the famous Beatle, John Lennon.

John woke up that August morning to rays of sunlight streaming through the window, their yellow glow sending warmth throughout his body. However, he couldn’t help but notice the cold arms wrapped around his bare chest, a calloused hand resting delicately above his heart. John looked over at the sleeping man beside him, observing how he looked when he wasn’t worried about other people seeing him when he wasn’t putting on a mask for the world.

He noticed Paul’s sunken eyes and the crows feet that sprouted from their outer corners, making him look far older than twenty-five. That was to be expected - his life had been filled with tragedy at every corner he turned, and the Beatle’s quickly-gained fame forced him to mature faster than his peers. John’s gaze shifted to his friend’s parted lips and he observed how the corners of his mouth turned downwards, his slight wrinkles falling in the same formation. Noticing these things in Paul made him seem even more beautiful, which had been something John thought wasn’t possible.

After a few minutes of peaceful silence, John felt Paul’s weight shift beside him and he watched as Paul’s eyelids fluttered open, his eyes searching for John’s. John smiled lightly as Paul looked over at his best friend. There was no discussion of last night, just knowing looks sharing all that needed to be communicated.

“So,” Paul mumbled as he sat up, “what’s the plan for today?”

John yawned and leaned back against the wooden headrest of the hotel bed. “Well, first off, we have to get dressed and clean the room so the women don’t suspect anything. It was hard enough having George and Ring’ keep them busy for the night.”

“You’re right.” Paul nodded in agreement as he began to shimmy out from under the sheets. “Then what?”

“I’m not sure what the Maharishi had planned, but I think he said somethin’ about meditation.”

“When do we not f__kin’ meditate?”

John shook his head in irritation as he rose from the bed. Why couldn’t Paul see how important these visits with the Maharishi were to him and George? He stretched and arched his back, his thin frame revealing his ribs. His porcelain skin was pulled tightly around his skeleton, his boxers hanging from his body, appearing to be three times his size.

“John…” Paul gasped as they both walked to the end of the small bed, “You’re painfully thin…”

“I’m fine, Paulie,” John asserted, shaking his head, “I promise.”

Paul took John’s skeletal hands in his own and frowned. “How… How much acid did you take last night?”

“More than I should have,” John scoffed, his eyes searching Paul’s for anything but despair.

“John! You’re going to bloody die!”

“No, I’m not. I’m perfectly okay,” John assured him.

Paul placed his hands on John’s cheeks and held him close. John’s trembling hands found their way to Paul’s bare waist, holding him steady. They gazed into each other’s captivating (and in John’s case, glassy) eyes, communicating through looks only the two of them understood.

Then there was a knock on the door.

Both of the boys' eyes widened. Paul panicked and climbed into the wooden wardrobe, John quickly closing its rickety doors. He picked up a pair of jeans from the floor and pulled them on as the visitor knocked again.

“One moment!” John called, zipping the fly and quickly fastening the belt. He walked over to the door and swung it open towards him. To his surprise, a saddened Ringo was standing on the other side, his hands folded in front of him. Something had gone wrong. John’s heart began to pound against his ribs, the anxiety and LSD left in his system making him feel lightheaded.

“I… Uh… Ringo, please come in,” He greeted his band mate with more of an order than a suggestion.

Ringo did as he said and walked into the messy hotel room, John closing the door behind him. “Christ mate,” Ringo exclaimed, “Doesn’t the Maharishi believe in minimalism? Having fewer belongings?”

John held his hands behind his back to hide their shaking and rolled his eyes, “Well, you know me, Ring - I can’t keep my sheet music organized, nonetheless my room.”

Ringo chuckled and raised a brow. “Speaking about your room, aren’t those Paul’s jeans?”

“Off-topic, Ringo,” He asserted, sitting down in one of the armchairs in the sitting area. “Why are you here, anyway?”

“Well, I have some news. But, before I tell you, you have to promise to stay calm. You can get a little… out-of-hand sometimes, mate.”

John tried to hide his rising anxiety by crossing his legs under one another and folding his hands under his chin.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Damn… I don’t… I don’t know how to say this.” Tears formed in Ringo’s eyes, and he blinked to wipe them away. He couldn’t cry - not now. “Um… You know Brian?”

John nodded and nervously chucked, smiling lightly to shield his heart, “Of course I do, You twat.”

“He’s dead... he... he overdosed and... I'm so sorry, John.”

 

Silence.

 

Sustained, unforgiving silence.

 

Nothingness.

 

And then everything.

Blood-spattered, blurry vision. A body rising from a chair. Hands wrapping around the armrests. Wood splintering.

“Get out.”

Ringo didn't move. He was frozen in place, stunned by John’s sudden outburst. 

“GET OUT!”

The shortest Beatle trembled with fright as he turned on his heel and raced out the door, slamming it shut behind him. Paul bit his lip as he leaned his head back against the wall of the wardrobe. Brian was so much more than their manager - he was a brother, a confidant, the “fifth Beatle” - and to John, he was even more. There was silence in the room again. That is until John began to cry. John never cried - ever. The only other time Paul had seen John shed a tear was when his mother died.

Paul nudged open the door of the wardrobe and stepped down into the room. His feet brushed against the stone-cold floor as he made his way over to John, chills spreading throughout his body. John had collapsed onto the edge of the bed, his elbows resting on his knees as tears streamed down his cheeks. The younger of the two came and sat beside his friend, taking one of John’s hands into his own, interlacing their fingers.

No words were spoken. John stood erratically and pulled Paul up from the cotton sheets, their eyes locking. Then, John leaned his head on Paul’s pounding chest, closing his weeping eyes as he felt his own heartbeat slow to the rhythmic beat of his companion’s. 

They would be okay.

Okay.

Not perfect. Not broken.

Just okay.


End file.
